


All lives are (love)stories

by amithia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Kinda Time Travel, M/M, Magic Reveal, Merlioske-friendly, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Second Chances, Yes you read that right, parallel reality, two sides of the same coin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-23 05:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30050436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amithia/pseuds/amithia
Summary: “This may not be my world. But you are still mine. And I’m yours.”***Everything that has a beginning must have an end. It’s the natural order, the one law that binds all things in existence.There’s just one exception. One that can’t be ruled, can’t be tamed. One thing that surpasses time, and space, and everything in between. One thing that conquers all.One thing that can defy the stars.
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	1. At the end

**Author's Note:**

> I have no words to explain how much this fic means to me. I've spent several months thinking about it, so scared to start writing. And I was justified! *hardcore cried when writing the freaking summary* Merlin and Arthur deserved so much better and I'm determined to make things right. 
> 
> This is very much WIP, but I'll do my best to update on a regular basis, ideally once a week. I know exactly what I want to happen, just need to figure out how to get there hehe. It's gonna be pretty long, I have absolutely no chapter number estimate.
> 
> Fortunately, I have a bunch of amazing people helping me craft this story. Huge thanks to my betas **izzybeth** and **midnightshadow29** , and my alphas/trusted consultants **Rowan** and Ilaria ( **youkeepmeright** ). I'm so grateful you agreed to follow me with this story of mine. xoxo
> 
> I meant to wait with posting the first chapter until I've written a few at least, but I'm too gittery and excited and anxious to wait. So here it goes. The first chapter is rather short, definitelly not a standard for future chapters. Consider it a little preview :)
> 
> I'll shut up now. Enjoy the first chapter, as heart-breaking as it is. You who know me also know that it won't stay like that for (too) long.

_No one man can choose his destiny_  
_and no one man can escape it_  
_But if your heart burns_  
_with love so fierce_  
_that even galaxies scream_  
_and your whole story goes up in flames_  
_until there’s nothing but ash_  
_find the courage to start anew_  
_and rewrite your stars_  
_-_ Let's rewrite the stars

“I want to s-say something I’ve never s-said to you b-before.” 

Each word costs him great effort, and Merlin can feel life trickling out of him, faster and faster by the second, his body getting heavier, sinking further into Merlin’s arms. He can’t tell whether the stuttering is the result of pain or cold. Arthur’s skin has always been golden, warm to the touch even during the fiercest of winters. Merlin would know. He’s spent the past ten years marveling at the fact. Arthur has always reminded him of the sun: intense, blinding in its beauty. Irreplaceable. One of a kind. 

He’s all of those things still. Even when his skin has turned ashen pale, his lips blue and trembling. 

Merlin shakes himself, trying to hear over the deafening noise of his heart pounding in his ears. _Arthur is dying_. He’s dying in his arms. 

And there’s nothing he can do. 

He clutches Arthur closer, pressing their cheeks together, breathing him in. He smells so strongly of dirt, sweat and blood. But underneath it all he still smells like _Arthur_ ; like a thunderstorm and grass after rain. 

His breathing slows down frighteningly fast and Merlin searches out his eyes in panic. The sparkling blue of his irises has dimmed to a hazy grey and he stares up at the sky with an empty look. But he must feel Merlin’s gaze on him, because he takes a long breath in and puts all his strength into turning his head until their eyes lock. For a split second, Merlin sees a flash of that familiar sparkle. His heart clenches with hope. 

Arthur’s dry lips part, and Merlin wants to tell him not to strain himself, to hold on for just a little longer. He doesn’t need to say anything. It’s Merlin who has so much to say, so much to explain. Knowing that Arthur doesn’t hate him, that he forgives him, is so much more than he could have ever hoped for. It’s more than enough. 

But he owes Arthur so much. Arthur deserves so much. So much better than what he’s been dealt. So much better than Merlin.

“I love you.”

And this time, it’s loud, and clear, and sure. Arthur’s tongue doesn’t trip over the words, there’s no trace of barely concealed pain in his voice. Not once does his gaze waver, and he looks so much like the warrior he was born to be. 

When he takes in the gobsmacked look on Merlin’s face, brows scrunched up _because this doesn’t make sense_ , there’s an ever so soft tilt to his lips, and Merlin realises, with an irrefutable finality, it’s a smile meant only for him. He knows because he’s seen it before. Only a few times, only on the rarest of occasions, when Arthur felt safe, and happy, and free. When he allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of Merlin, opening his heart up to him. And Merlin’s heart answered in its own way, even though he was never sure if Arthur recognised it for what it was. If he knew how much Merlin felt for him. How much he still does, his feelings growing stronger and louder with every day by Arthur’s side. 

Arthur raises his hand, the rough leather of his glove sliding through Merlin’s matted hair. He smiles then, not wide but blinding all the same. Merlin’s heart skips a frantic beat when he registers Arthur is pulling him down, his dimming eyes locked on Merlin’s lips. And Merlin wants so much and so badly to follow his lead, to press their mouths together, as they always should have done, and breathe life into Arthur, the way all those fairy tales speak of. 

But his body is frozen in place, the echo of Arthur’s soft but sure _I love you_ running through his veins like a lightening, burning and wonderful. And suddenly, Arthur’s hand slides heavily alongside Merlin’s neck, his eyes turning into his head and eyelashes fluttering shut. 

“No,” Merlin chokes, panic boiling in his stomach. "No. Arthur."

His hands scramble over Arthur's serene face, desperately shaking him awake.

"Arthur!" 

Arthur's eyes blink open momentarily, but he's not looking at Merlin, he's not really looking anywhere at all, and Merlin feels him slip away further, somewhere he knows he can't follow. Still, he begs him in a hopeful whisper, "Stay with me." 

The last spark of warmth seeps out of Arthur's body, leaving him lifeless in Merlin's arms. Merlin keeps holding on, mumbling prayers and pleas against Arthur’s temple. He feels a sob crawling up his throat, but it comes out as a roar.

 _"O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!"_

His voice breaks on a heart-wrenching sob and he couldn’t care less. Gently, carefully, he extracts himself from under Arthur, making sure he doesn't let go at any moment. He takes Arthur's beautiful, stone cold face between his trembling hands and brings their foreheads together, eyes squeezed shut. Maybe, if he keeps them closed for a little while, he can open them again and find it was all just a terrible dream. 

But Arthur doesn't move under him, his breath doesn't ghost over Merlin's skin. His magic screams inside him in anguish for having been separated from what it’s always been a part of.

He doesn't realise he's crying until a few tears land on Arthur's cheeks, trickling down his face as if they belong to him. Merlin brushes them away with his thumb, then follows the path with his lips. 

He's never been one for fairy tales. The battle between good and evil is not external. It's a battle everyone fights inside themselves every day. Good isn't always good, evil isn't always evil. Everyone and everything is made of both. And fairy tales are just a lie.

But there's this one thing he does believe in. One thing that can move worlds, that can conquer life and death. One thing that bends the rules. One thing that can defy destiny and rewrite the stars. 

He presses his lips to Arthur's, trembling and feather-light. Magic burns under his skin, demanding to be reunited with its other part. Merlin lets it consume him, trusts his magic to know what to do. 

Into the space between them, he begs one more time.

"Stay with me." 

Kilgharrah's roar resounds in distance. 

Arthur's body remains cold. 


	2. A heart's call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anywhere with you is everywhere I want to be._ \- J. Iron Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have my solemn word this is as angsty as it's ever gonna get. Pinky promise :D

”Merlin, there’s nothing you can do.”

Merlin shoots Kilgharrah a defiant look as he struggles dragging Arthur’s lifeless body to the lake. He’s not going to listen to the dragon anymore, not after all the lies he’s fed Merlin.

He tightens his grip on Arthur’s armor, hoisting him up. He manages to move them both to the water by a couple of steps before Arthur starts slipping from his hold again.

_ Because it’s too late. _

A sudden wave of hopelessness washes over him. He turns his gaze back on Kilgharrah, eyes wide with silent pleading.

“I failed?” he croaks, unable to keep disbelief from his voice.

The dragon shakes his head slowly. “No, young warlock. For all you’ve dreamt of building has come to pass.” And he sounds so calm, so collected. Pleased even, as though all the puzzle pieces have fallen into their rightful place.

Merlin lets out a snarl, mustering all his strength to lift Arthur up and hold him close. “I can’t lose him!” he screams over Arthur’s shoulder. “He’s my friend!”

Kilgharrah sighs quietly, like Merlin is a child who needs things explained to him that he should have known all along. “Though no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny, some lives have been foretold. Like yours has. Like Arthur’s has.”

Merlin presses his lips together and shakes his head once. “No.”

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah says warningly, making the rage inside Merlin roar with abandon.

“No! It can’t end like this!” he argues, gasping for air that just won’t make it to his lungs. “I won’t let it!”

Kilgharrah tilts his head, large eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Merlin, you cannot-”

“This can’t be our destiny! He can’t...” He swallows a sob, then continues quietly. “Arthur belongs with me. We are... We are two sides of the same coin.” He nods to himself. He’s heard that so many times. He’s heard it from the dragon himself! There is more. There must be more! “He can’t be... “

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah tries again, sounding resigned. “This is not the end. Arthur is not just a king. He’s the Once and Future King.” Merlin holds his breath, waiting for the dragon to deliver the silver lining he’s desperate for. “He shall rise again, when Albion needs him the most.”

Merlin’s brows draw together and he turns his head, pressing his face into Arthur’s hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What about me?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “What if  _ I _ need him?”

He already knows the answer. Because right here, in this moment, he needs Arthur more than ever. More than he ever needed anyone or anything.

And Arthur’s body is still cold.

“It has been a privilege to have known you, young warlock,” Kilgharrah says instead. “The story we have been a part of will live long in the minds of men.”

“No. This is not my story. This is not  _ our  _ story.”

A minute passes, maybe more, with Merlin breathing Arthur’s fading scent in, waiting for Kilgharrah’s answer he doesn’t want to hear.

“What’s written can’t be unwritten, Merlin,” the dragon says evasively. “Everything has a beginning. And everything has an end. It’s a rule that applies to all things in existence.”

Merlin knows this.  _ He knows this. _ Always has. It was a lesson hard-learnt, after years of failings and heart-breaks. He knew better. He knew not to hold onto things, nor people. Especially not people. Especially not Arthur.

But the bond between them is stronger than his will, stronger than logic. Stronger than  _ magic. S _ tronger than life.

And so much stronger than death.

“What about love?”

When he looks at Kilgharrah, he’s regarding Merlin with something resembling sympathy. It’s the closest to emotion, besides anger, the dragon has ever displayed. And it leaves Merlin wondering how much more there is to him, how much more Merlin will never learn.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” he says with genuine regret. They look at each other for a while, then Kilgharrah continues. “This is where we must part. But I have faith our paths will cross again.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, doesn’t know what he should say. Despite their disagreements, despite Merlin’s constant frustration with the old dragon, they are friends. At least sometimes. At least a little. He thinks Kilgharrah might feel the same, finding Merlin’s silly, human brain equally endearing and annoying.

So he doesn’t say goodbye, and is not surprised when he doesn’t receive one either. Instead, he watches Kilgharrah bat his wings once, twice, before he’s in the air, looking down on Merlin with something akin to a smile. He doesn’t have enough strength to return it, isn’t sure he wants to. He manages an acknowledging nod, and then Kilgharrah is gone, taking a part of Merlin with him.

***

It feels so final, seeing Arthur lie still in that boat Merlin put him in. It feels like giving up.

He places his hand on Arthur’s forehead, fingers brushing against his golden hair. The warmth has long since left Arthur’s body, but that’s not what Merlin misses the most.

His magic always wreaked havoc inside him when in Arthur’s presence, ever since they first met. He remembers the inexplicable pull of the invisible thread leading him to Camelot. To Arthur. And how it burned brighter the longer he remained by Arthur’s side.

How it faded with Arthur’s last breaths.

“Arthur,” he chokes out, body shaking with suppressed sobs.

The warmth is gone, but the pull is still there, as faint as it is. He can feel it like a lost limb, like a ghost of something that’s been there for too long to disappear completely. It’s almost gone, but  _ it’s still there,  _ murmuring that all is not lost, even though he knows it is.

Ignoring the murmur, he swallows over the growing lump in his throat. Regretfully, he takes his hand off of Arthur, curling it into a fist to prevent himself from reaching towards him again.

He takes in a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut. When he opens them, he mutters, _ “ _ In sibbe gerest,” and watches, sobbing once more, as the spell takes Arthur further and further away, the thread pulling at Merlin’s heart like a silent scream.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s standing in the lake, the muddy water soaking his trousers. The pull intensifies and he finds himself taking another step forward, and then another, and another, the water licking at the skin above his waist...

And then he stills, frozen in place. He commands his legs to move, to go and not stop until he’s reunited with Arthur, but an invisible force holds him back, keeping him in place. A helpless scream is ripped out of him, echoing through the forest.

“Please,” he breathes, willing his body to move and failing. Then repeats, more urgently “Please.” But nothing changes, the lake refusing to let him further. 

“Bring him back,” he begs. To whom he doesn’t know. “Bring him back to me.”

He struggles against the lake’s hold and the more he resists, the more the lake pushes back.

“Please! I’m begging you.” He calls for his magic, eyes flashing gold. His legs won’t move, his magic useless against the ancient power of Avalon.

He lets his head drop, lets the tears flow freely until they are blending with the magical waters of the lake. He looks at his reflection, distorted and barely there.

Suddenly, the surface breaks in front of him, a familiar figure emerging from the water.

“Freya?” he says, regarding the young woman with wide eyes. She looks so different and yet exactly how he remembers her.

“Merlin,” she returns, and it’s so familiar, so soothing. He feels more tears streaming down his cheeks, his vision swimming until Freya is nothing but a blur. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Freya,” he repeats, voice filled with hope and yearning.

“I’m so sorry, Merlin,” she says, and it sounds as heart-broken as Merlin feels.

He wipes at his eyes furiously, pleading with his gaze. “Freya, are you- Can you bring him back?”

“Merlin,” Freya starts, the regretful note dousing the last spark of hope. “I can’t change what’s come to pass.”

“But this is not right,” he argues through clenched teeth. “Arthur, he... he’s my destiny.”

Freya floats through the water closer to him, placing a wet hand on Merlin’s arm. “It was Arthur’s destiny to die by Mordred’s hand,” she explains slowly. “It was long foretold.

“No! It was not!” he objects, feeling Freya’s grip tighten, grounding him. “It was my destiny to protect him!”

“You did, Merlin. For ten years, you’ve been by his side.”

He shakes his head, nails digging into his palm. “I couldn’t save him.”

“Nothing could have saved him. It was written in his stars.”

And there it is again. Destiny. Fate. The story written for them before either of them was even born. The story that brought them together. The story that so unforgivingly took Arthur away from him.

He feels something inside him shift, a curious sensation settling heavily in his chest. His magic burns in his veins, demanding to be unleashed.

“Then I will rewrite the stars.”

Freya’s lips part on an exhale. “No one can do that, Merlin,” she says carefully, as though she’s taming a wild animal.

Still unable to move, Merlin leans forward into her space. “You don’t know that!” he says resolutely. “I’m supposed to be the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth, right?”

He registers a flash of panic in Freya’s eyes and her voice mirrors it. “You can’t go back in time to change the past, Merlin.”

He holds her gaze, unblinking. “But you can?”

“No.”

“But you can do something!”

Freya’s face twists into a pained expression. She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry, Merlin. Arthur’s soul will rest in Avalon now. There’s nothing that can bring him back before his time.” She gives him a pointed look. “Not even me.”

Merlin’s magic screams at him, asking to be released, to shake heaven and earth. To be reunited with its other half.

“If you can’t bring him back to me,” he says as calmly as he can, “then bring me to him.”

Freya’s eyes are ice cold. “No.”

“Freya, please.”

“No! I won’t do that!” She draws her hand back, her expression stormy as she wills Merlin to surrender with her gaze.

Merlin’s resolve starts to shatter, the fire now becoming a simmer. Freya must feel his anguish, her eyes softening. She raises her hand again, this time placing it gently on Merlin tear-streaked cheek, wiping their remnants away with her thumb. 

“It’s not your destiny,” she adds quietly, begging him to listen.

“ _ Arthur  _ is my destiny,” he replies. “He’s everything to me.”

Freya drops her hand, lets out a loud exhale in resignation. “Merlin.”

“Please,” Merlin tries again. “Please.”

Freya avoids his eyes, bites her lower lip. It’s the first sign of uncertainty she’s displayed so far and it has Merlin hold his breath with anticipation.

“There might be... something,” she says guardedly, but it’s enough to spur Merlin into action. He reaches forward, grasping her by the shoulders, a reluctant smile finding its way to his lips.

“Freya...”

“But it’s dangerous,” she adds forcefully, giving Merlin a meaningful look.

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t you?” she chuckles humorlessly. “You don’t know what you’d be risking. What you’d be leaving behind.”

For the first time since Merlin carried Arthur from the battlefield, he allows himself to look beyond. To what awaits him at home.

He thinks of Camelot, his family. He thinks of Gaius and how he must be anxiously expecting him to appear at the doorstep. 

He thinks of the knights, of the last drunken game of dice they played in the tavern before everything came crashing down.

He thinks of Gwen, watching from the window of the royal chambers, praying for her husband’s safe return. He thinks of how he’s going to tell her that he failed, that he couldn’t save him.

He thinks of his mother, of how much faith she’s always had in him. Of what she would say if she learnt that all she’s believed in is nothing but a huge lie.

He thinks of what his life is going to be like without Arthur in it.

“There’s nothing left for me,” he replies, letting go of her. The emptiness inside him spreads like poison.

“Isn’t there?” Freya asks dubiously.

They didn’t have much time together. But the time they did have was enough. Enough for Merlin to make Freya feel loved, and enough for Freya to see right into Merlin’s soul. With everything that’s happened in the years after her untimely passing, Merlin got caught in the whirlwind all too often. Somewhere along the line he forgot how much he missed her. How much he missed being with someone who understood him in a way no one else could. Not ever Gaius.

He’s acutely reminded of her absence, of the hollowness she left behind after Merlin said his goodbye at the lake. A surge of affection overtakes him, washing some of that emptiness away, and for a moment it’s easier to breathe. 

“What about the kingdom you helped build?” Freya continues. “Your friends? What about your mother?”

He ignores the stabbing sensation in his gut, and simply says, “Do it.”

Freya hesitates. “Merlin, you have to know.” She lowers her voice. “I’m powerful. But even I have no control over the laws of nature. The fabric of existence acts according to its own rules. It’s far beyond the realm of my abilities. Not even the Fates can tamper with it.”

The powerlessness of Freya’s words terrifies him, but he doesn’t tell her to stop. Whatever it is, he can do it. He will be reunited with Arthur, whatever the cost. 

“If I do this, if I cast this spell, there’s no telling where it will take you.”

Merlin doesn’t care. There’s just one thing he needs to know. “Will Arthur be there?”

Freya nods hesitantly. “I believe so, yes.”

And that’s all that matters.

“Then do it.”

Freya doesn’t move, only keeps watching Merlin with a calculating gaze, possibly looking for any sign of hesitation, of doubt.

There’s none.

“Do it.”

Freya’s shoulders sag, her eyelashes flutter shut, and Merlin recognises it for what it is.

She’s made up her mind.

Her eyes open again, glistening with an overwhelming combination of fondness and sadness that has Merlin’s heart clench with longing. Once more, she places a tender hand on his cheek, brushing a few stray curls behind his ear. The smile she gives him isn’t more than a subtle quirk of lips, but Merlin feels the love pouring out of her and into him in waves.

“I will miss you,” she says quietly, like sharing a secret.

A few more tears escape, brushed away by Freya’s gentle fingers. Merlin takes her by the wrist, turning his head to place a reverent kiss to her palm, answering without words.

He lets Freya’s hand slide alongside his neck and lower, until it comes to rest in the centre of his chest, right over his frantically beating heart. She gazes up at him, a silent question loud in the space between them. Merlin gives a single, determined nod, and Freya mirrors it.

Her eyes close, her lips part, a litany of whispered words spilling out. Freya’s voice grows in volume, reciting words Merlin doesn’t recognise. The air around them cracks, charged with magic. Freya’s hand feels like burning, like it’s branding him. The thread in his heart comes to life, pulling violently. A loud gasp escapes him, the burning sensation almost unbearable as it spreads throughout his body.

He lets out a howl, the liquid fire crawling up and licking at his throat. The world around him dissolves. He loses sensation of his body, until there is nothing left but the intense pull. He surrenders to it, lets the thread guide him. 

Golden light fills his vision, reminding him so much of the color of Arthur’s hair, bright like the sun. 

Arthur’s anguished face flashes behind his eyelids, and it’s so wrong, seeing him like this. The pain is suddenly gone. Merlin’s need to comfort Arthur, to save him from whatever put the tormented expression on his face overtaking his senses. He feels his heart reach out to him, repeating Arthur’s name in his mind like a prayer.

And then everything turns black.


	3. Where all the roads lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
>  All along, I thought I was lost, but now I know that was just the feeling of my heart searching endlessly for you. -  
>  _  
>  William C. Hannan

He’s drowning. His lungs convulse with every attempt to inhale as water pours into his mouth and down his throat. He chokes, tries to scream, only for more water to come rushing past his lips. His eyes shoot open, eyelids fluttering rapidly to blink away the onslaught of water coming down. No, not water. Rain.

He turns his head, raising a hand to protect his face from the fierce downpour. He spits and coughs, forcing the water out of his lungs. Cold seeps into him, sending unpleasant shivers down his spine. His arms come around himself, trying to preserve as much body heat as they can while his teeth chatter and his body spasms.

His magic awakens without his conscious decision, as it tends to do so often, spreading throughout his body like warm honey sliding down a sore throat. The tremors gradually subside, allowing his mind to focus on his surroundings instead.

Intense confusion is at the forefront of his mind as he looks around himself. He’s still at the lake, lying at the shore only a couple of feet from the water. The ground under him is soaked through, soil turned to mud by the unrelenting torrents. The dreary sky mirrors the murky waters of Avalon, so reminiscent of what Merlin feels like.

Freya’s nowhere to be found, and Merlin starts to wonder if she was ever there in the first place. The memory of the spell she cast still burns under his skin. It felt so real, and yet so bizarre. Did he dream everything up?

No, it can’t be. It can’t be, he would know! He doesn’t remember walking out of the lake, doesn’t remember losing consciousness. His last memory is of Freya’s hand on his chest, golden light filling his vision. Then Arthur’s face, filled with sorrow. He remembers his magic coming alive, reaching towards Arthur, _for_ Arthur, and then... nothing.

It couldn’t be just his imagination. Why would he dream something like this?

“Freya?” he croaks, voice low and tired, as though he’s been screaming himself hoarse for hours. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath and tries again, louder, “Freya!”

He pushes himself up into a sitting position with a groan, gaze flicking in all directions, always coming to rest on the lake. A minute passes by, then another, and another, hopelessness shaking Merlin to his core as realisation dawns on him, colder and heavier than the rain.

“No,” he whispers, denial rearing its ugly head. “No. Freya.” This time it’s not rainwater sliding down his cheeks in rivulets. “No.”

He brings his knees to his chest, preses his palms against his eyes. A wrecked sob is torn out of him, and another, and another, until he’s shaking with the force of it. He slides one hand to his chest, spreads it right over where his heart is. He focuses on the link, the thread that always leads him home. It’s still there, unusually quiet. The raging desperation from before is gone, like it was never there.

Merlin sinks into it, dives deep to bring the connection back to life. His confusion only deepens, bringing an impending sense of dread with it. The intense pull that prompted him to follow Arthur anywhere, even to the afterlife, is no more than a gentle buzz, warm and tingling.Just as it was when Arthur was still alive.

He pulls at the thread himself, willing the simmer to burst into a fervid flame and lead him to Arthur, wherever he is. But the thread has a mind of its own, purring contently as it always did in Arthur’s presence.

Merlin claws at his chest, growling in frustration when the one thing that’s always connected him to Arthur remains quiet, refusing to acknowledge the loss. He lets out a deafening scream, feels the ground shake under him, the lake crashing against the shore in waves.

The thread keeps humming, undisturbed in his chest.

***

He takes the long way home. It doesn’t give him more than half a day, but he’ll take anything, whatever delays the inevitable. He’s walked these woods countless times, knows them like the back of his hand. There’s something different this time, though. He can’t quite explain it, but he can’t shake the feeling off either. The woods change, he knows. Magic is woven into every tree, every blade of grass. The air itself shifts, giving in to its ever changing current. But the essence of it remains the same. The trees could fall and the ground could turn to ash, and Merlin would still recognise this place for what it is.

The trees all stand proudly, the ground still smells the same. But something is different, like moving all the furniture from one’s chamber to a different one hoping it will feel the same.

Merlin stops at a creek, kneeling down and scooping up a handful of water. Sipping it slowly. He dips his hand in the stream again and splashes the water over his face.

He must be losing his mind. He’s walked these woods before. He’s walked them after saying his goodbyes to two people he loved, leaving pieces of his heart at the lake. On both occasions, as he made his way back to Camelot, he was a different person than he had been when walking to the lake. On both occasions, he could feel it, his heart breaking and softening with loss, impenetrable walls rising around it to protect what was left.

He would get home, back to Camelot, burying his sorrow somewhere deep and dark, concealed from everyone. He would lock himself in his room, falling into a restless sleep the second his body hit the bed, praying that he would wake up and all would be right in the world. Then morning would come, as it always did, bringing no comfort whatsoever. And so he would put fresh clothes on, skip his breakfast to avoid Gaius’ pitiful looks, and head straight to Arthur’s chambers to wake his master. His friend. His king.

And Arthur would sneer at him, grumpy as ever, demanding breakfast Merlin would purposefully mess up, so he could provoke Arthur to come up with a litany of insults. Merlin would readily deflect them, engaging in a never-ending banter that, for some inexplicable reason, would be the highlight of his day. Because no matter how bad things got, no matter how much his world was falling apart, there was one thing holding everything together. One thing he let behind those walls. One thing that gave the pain meaning, that had Merlin believe it was all worth it in the end.

And now he’s lost that one thing too, leaving nothing but aching emptiness behind.

It isn’t the woods that have changed.

He slides a hand through his hair, finding it sticky with dirt and mud. He doesn’t remember when he last bathed properly, doesn’t remember when it last mattered. But soon, he’s going to stand in front of the queen, the whole council, admitting how he failed each and everyone of them. How he failed the kingdom. And how he failed Arthur.

Maybe he should show up like this, filthy and stripped of his dignity, exactly how he feels. It’s what he deserves after all. But the desire to wash away the events of the past few days eventually wins, and he’s ridding himself of his torn clothes before he knows it. He slides his hand into the pocket of his trousers, fingers closing over the familiar shape of the sigil. The sigil that belonged to Arthur's mother. The sigil that Arthur gave him.

It's a comforting weight in his palm and it takes Merlin back. Back to that night in the woods, to the words Arthur said, spoken from the deepest part of his heart. To the way Arthur looked at him when he spoke of his mother, then avoided Merlin's gaze as he handed him the sigil, shy but determined. It was then, in that very moment, that Merlin realised how much he actually loved Arthur. More than a friend, more than a king. More than he ever let himself believe. And he knew, with utmost certainty, that when he would walk through the veil, when he would give his life for Arthur's, it wouldn't be because of his destiny. 

He returns the sigil to his pocket before he takes his trousers off, throwing them on the ground. He whispers a familiar spell, directing it towards the pile of fabric to mend and clean and dry what’s needed, as he’s done many times for Arthur when he was too tired or lazy to do it the hard way. He doesn’t do the same for himself, stepping into the freezing stream and scrubbing away the grime, sweat, and guilt with his bare hands. He only succeeds with the first two.

He doesn’t use magic to dry himself either, instead choosing to stand in the cool air until the moisture evaporates on its own. The magic boils in his veins, asking to serve a purpose, to keep him warm. He ignores it, focusing on the chilling sensation biting at his skin like millions of sharp teeth, seeping into his bones, just so he can feel something else than all consuming void.

It doesn’t work.

***

It doesn’t matter how many scenarios he runs through, they all end the same way. The realisation becomes more dreadful with each step that carries him to Camelot, until he can see the castle in all its glory. It looks the exact same he remembers, and yet he knows it’s anything but. 

The sun is high in the sky as Merlin approaches the gates. A lump forms in his throat when he’s close enough to make out two figures guarding it, though not as close as to identify them. Regardless of who they are, they must be anxiously awaiting Merlin’s return. Arthur’s return, to me precise, but everyone in Camelot knows that Merlin never leaves Arthur’s side. Where Arthur goes, Merlin goes. It’s always been like that. What are they going to say, to _do_ , when they take notice of the King’s absence? 

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t realise how close he’s gotten until a sharp voice pulls him back to the present moment. “Hey!” 

His gaze snaps to the guards, who he immediately recognises as Henry and Noah. After a decade spent within Camelot’s walls, Merlin has got to know everyone. And everyone got to know him, at least to an extent. He was the King’s manservant after all. Still is, despite everything. Merlin always made friends easily. Well, most of the time. Once again, he thinks of Arthur, of their first meeting. Of how much he wanted to wipe Arthur’s smug expression from his face. With his fist, preferably. Or magic. A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips at the memory. 

So yes, with the exception of the entitled prat, he never struggled making friends. But the way the guards are observing him now is anything but friendly. Startled by the turn of events, he stops in his tracks, confused.

“Hey, you!” Noah shouts, his right hand coming to grip the hilt of his sword. His eyes narrow in suspicion. He exchanges a panicked glance with Henry, who looks just as baffled as Merlin feels, but mirrors Noah’s actions, reaching for his sword. “Stay where you are!”

And that command is enough to spur Merlin into action and do the exact opposite; flee. His mind is reeling, desperate to come up with an explanation, but there’s no time. He can hear the guards’ heavy steps behind him as they try to match his speed. Merlin has an advantage here; not only is he a decent runner, but he’s not weighed down by armour. He turns to the right, relief washing over him when he spots the guards far behind from the corner of his eye. 

Looking straight ahead, he searches for an escape. He knows another way to the castle, but that would lead him to the dungeons first. Dungeons mean more guards, which means higher chances of getting caught. He still doesn’t understand why he needs to run, to hide, and right now he has no interest in figuring out why. 

He takes another turn to the right, and immediately his gaze falls upon a nook in the wall about twenty yards away. It’s a lousy hiding spot, but it’s better than nothing. He slides into the nook, aware that he’s still painfully exposed from the side. The guards haven’t turned the corner yet, and Merlin takes the opportunity to cast a simple spell he’s used many times. His eyes flash gold and footsteps appear in the soil, following the same path Merlin would take if he continued running. 

He holds his breath as he hears the guards approach, the clinking of their armour getting louder by the second. They run past him, gaze firmly on the path ahead, until they disappear around the next corner a minute later. 

Merlin lets out a long, relieved sigh, tension bleeding out of him. Before he can change his mind, he runs back to the gates. He enters through the gates, keeping his head low. It’s around midday and the court is alive, the markets full on. He blends in with the crowd, hoping everyone’s too busy or distracted to pay attention to their surroundings.

He has no idea where he’s headed, no idea why he needs to hide. His best option right now are the stables, just a few yards away. He makes his way there, adding a spring to his step, avoiding locking his gaze with anyone. 

He’s relieved to find the stables empty, safe for the horses. He leans against the wall, resting his forehead on his forearm. What on earth did just happen? Why were the guards chasing him like he was some sort of an outlaw? 

Could it be…? What if Gwen found out? About Arthur, about Merlin? Maybe she figured it all out. A mysterious sorcerer, coming to the rescue while Merlin was nowhere to be found. What if she knows? What if she gave the order to have Merlin arrested and-

No. Gwen wouldn’t. Even if she somehow managed to reveal Merlin’s secret, she would never… Would she?

Gaius. That was the only safe place right now. Merlin needed to get to Gaius.

His stream of thought is interrupted when something sharp presses between his shoulder blades. _Oh, hell._

“Declare yourself.”

Merlin’s heart skips a beat, the familiarity of the voice sending all coherent thought out of the window. It can’t be… But what if it is? “Lancelot?” 

He hears a sharp inhale, the pressure of what must be a sword against his back faltering. “W-What...”

No, that’s definitely his voice. He’s not imagining this. “Lancelot!” He whirls around excitedly, knocking the blade away from his body in the process, but it’s back in the next second, pressed against his throat instead. 

“Don’t move!” Lancelot barks, but Merlin can’t think straight, because _yes, it’s him!_ Just as Merlin remembers him, except for the dumbstruck look on his face, staring at Merlin like he’s seeing a ghost. And isn’t that ironic?

“Lancelot, it’s me! Merlin.” 

Eyes like saucers, Lancelot shakes his head, adjusting his grip on the sword when his hand trembles. “You’re not Merlin,” he says darkly. “You can’t be.”

“What? Why not?” Merlin demands, frustrated beyond belief. He barely set a foot back in Camelot and he’s never been so confused. He raises his hand, touching the blade gingerly, trying to push it away. 

“I said, don’t move!” Lance orders, gritting his teeth. It’s a little comforting seeing him as lost as Merlin is. 

“What’s going on?” Merlin finally asks. “Why are you- _How_ are you here?”

Lancelot huffs a humorless laugh. “I should be asking that question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, well, that makes the two of us.”

Merlin’s eyes prickle with tears. He curses internally. He’s so damn tired. Not just physically. The heartache is still fresh and it stings like an open wound. As much as he dreaded to return to Camelot, this _is_ his home. He’s supposed to be safe here, this is where he’s supposed to heal. Instead, he’s been chased - hunted, more precisely, like a common criminal - and one of his best friends (who’s supposed to be long gone) holds a sword to his throat. And he still doesn’t have any answers. 

“I swear,” he says weakly, “it’s me.”

“Liar,” Lancelot snarls, anger and confusion glistening in his eyes. 

Merlin wants to argue, wants to demand an explanation, but all protest dies on his tongue with Lancelot’s next words.

“Merlin is dead.”


End file.
